


I Can Feel It Humming

by souligneur



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Disabled Character, Drug Abuse, Expanded Canonical Event, Gen, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Non-Canon Male Sole Survivor, Slow Burn, Timeline Fuckery, and I mean a really slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-05-22 07:53:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6071212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/souligneur/pseuds/souligneur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A courier from the Mojave Wasteland follows an abduction all the way to the Commonwealth. A well-meaning but easily-misguided boy with a penchant for chems and disastrously poor choices, Avery wants to be the hero, but this isn't always easy... <br/>(The story of a low-intellect, high-luck wastelander taking the place of the Vault 111 Male Sole Survivor. Used to be one chapter, now being expanded.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of All the Diners, In All the World, He Stumbles Haphazardly Into Mine

**Author's Note:**

> Shout-out to imperfectkreis, who puts up with my shit. Furthermore, shout-out to Courier Charlie, who has been psuedo-resurrected.
> 
> My tumblr: barfyscorpion.tumblr.com, come say hello!

 

 

Deacon was shielded from the sunshine under his ramshackle canopy, nestled in the rocky hills of the northern Commonwealth, for much of the day. Under the simple blanket-and-branches structure was a folding chair, a table and a cooler. Desdemona called it ‘Vault watch’; he called it ‘the time-out corner’. He was fairly certain that’s what it was intended to be.

 

He spent the day downing Nuka-Cola. Read books with missing pages. Didn’t matter to him. Filled in the blanks with his own ideas. Helped keep him sharp, he reasoned. Sleeping was also on the agenda — propped his boots up on the table, shed his leather jacket and tucked it under his head for comfort.

 

It was a light sleep. The howling of dogs, an errant wind knocking the canopy, a cicada whining. He stirred often. Deacon wondered if it was what was referred to as ‘sleeping with one eye open’. No one really did that, right? Literally?

 

Waking fully, Deacon lifted his sunglasses, and rubbed under his eyes. Cleaned the lenses with his shirt while squinting through the sunlight. It was around six. The sun was directly angled towards his skull. He groaned.

 

As far as he knew, the vault had never opened. Vault 111. He wasn’t even certain it was ever used. Desdemona told him it was important anyway. He felt left in the dark, and was kind of mad about it. As mad as he ever gets, anyway. Usually he’s the one keeping other people at a healthy distance from what he knew.

 

If anything, he just wanted to know how to get in there. What kind of sick shit they were doing —or, did? — under that huge, steel cog? Every time he visited a new vault, he became more and more unpleasantly surprised by Vault-Tec’s creativity. It took a lot to surprise him.

 

“Ever seen anyone come out of there?” 

 

A question, right near the back of his head.

 

Deacon spilled Nuka-Cola all over the rock below his feet.

 

 

 

 — — — 

 

 

 

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t think I was being that quiet,” the kid says. He unties the plaid shirt he had around his waist and offers it.

 

Deacon does a quick inventory. No Nuka on his jeans, his shirt, his chair. “It’s all good. It missed me.”

 

“Why are you watching the vault?” The kid, maybe in his early twenties, asks, with a crooked little smile. He has pretty terrible teeth, even by wasteland standards. His eyes are bright and wide and telling. Deacon surmises he’d be a poor poker player.

 

“That’s a pretty hefty question. What if I was an assassin looking for a mark? What if I was a spy, man? You just walk up to people like that?”

 

“You don’t look shady.”

 

Deacon presents him with a winning smile. “Wow, right answer.”

 

“You’re welcome. I think.”

 

Deacon straightens up, stretches his arms above his head. Shoves his sunglasses further up his nose. “What’re _you_ doing here?”

 

“I really couldn’t tell you.”

 

“Oh, so _you’re_ the spy?” Deacon winks.

 

“It’s not like that. I couldn’t tell you because I, well,” he bites his lip, “I really don’t know. I just woke up here.”

 

The kid’s tying his sweater back around his waist with clumsy weaving motions. Deacon almost remarks that it’s an awful remote place to bed down, but stops himself when he sees the track marks. All down the kid’s arms. Little connect-the-dot puzzles which spell “Med-X” or “Psycho” pretty loud and clear.

 

“Congrats, you are the only other human being I have ever seen around here. No, I’ve never seen anyone leave the vault.”

 

“Vault one-one-one,” the kid says absent-mindedly, looking at the brightly-colored cog that shone bright under the descending sun.

 

Deacon shoves the small cooler underneath the table and folds the chair neatly against it. “I’m outta here. Where are you headed?”

 

“Oh, I don’t know,” the junkie says.

 

“Well, don’t stay up here. Wild dogs, bloodbugs, you know.”

 

“Yeah,” he shrugs.

 

Deacon slings the jacket over his shoulder and starts walking towards Concord. Soon afterward, he looks back and watches the kid travel in the complete opposite direction of civilization.

 

In the back of his mind, Deacon worries.

 

Not enough to chase after him, though.

 

 

 

 — — — 

 

 

 

Avery wanders. First southwest, then straight east. He has a terrible head for direction. His worn boots kick up pebbles as he aimlessly walks. Avery hums to himself as he walks down the ruined road, rubs at his eyes. He reaches into his backpack, looking for a fix. None left.

 

It’s a couple minutes before he finds his solution, shining bright against the quiet night: Neon lights, and the diner attached to them. Someone was shouting, someone with a big gun and, curiously, a small guard. Guess he wasn’t the only one to realize that the skinny ones could be the deadlier ones. Avery had gotten by on this principle, being a wiry little thing. Been avoiding getting chewed up by the wasteland itself, banking on his luck and on pure, raw instinct; he didn’t know how to fight, he just did what he had to do to win. 

 

Good enough, he supposed.

 

“Hey! What’s goin’ on over here?” Avery shouts to the two assailants, who were currently talking through the window of the diner to a worn-out looking lady with a worn-out looking twelve gauge.

 

“Whoa, whoa, what the fuck man, this is our party,” the man says, reeling around on his heel. Avery walked forward; ignoring the cocking of the skinny one’s gun and the scowl on her face. He had his hands in his pockets.

 

Wolfgang was a real piece of shit. Greasy black hair, all slicked-back in no attempt to hide his receding hairline; road leathers that had clearly seen better days. A nose that had been broken time and time again over the past… Thirty-something years of his life. Had the kind of cock-sure scowl that looked great with a fist in it.

 

“I take it you’re shaking down this lady for caps.” Avery said, posture relaxed, bright eyes glossing over Wolfgang and his lackey.

 

“What’s it to you?”

 

Avery looks from the tired lady in the window back to Wolfgang. “Just looked like things were about to get violent. How much does she owe you?”

 

“Two-fifty caps. Trudy’s boy — “ Wolfgang nods his head over towards the vision of a passed-out teenager in one of the diner booths — “Patrick, has got a bit of a Jet problem, that I am more than happy to oblige when someone actually picks up the fuckin’ tab.”

 

Trudy spits on her own linoleum floor. “You’re not getting a cap out of me, you’re poisoning my _boy_!”

 

“So, here we are,” Wolfgang continues. “We have a little bit of a problem, yeah? I’m makin’ an honest living, here — “

 

Trudy snorts.

 

“Shut the _fuck_ up while I’m talkin’,” Wolfgang growls. “ — so, all I’m fuckin’ asking is that I get paid for my services. Simone here, I pay her to be my gun, and she’d put a bullet in _my_ head if I were to decide I wasn’t going to pay up. It’s how things work. I’m sure you could agree with that.”

 

Avery lets the cogs turn in his mind, and then turns to Trudy. “He’s right, you know. Whether you found it right or wrong, Patrick stole from someone.”

 

“Oh for fuck’s sake, you’re siding with the chem pusher?” Trudy gives him the kind of glare only a mother knows how to fashion.

 

Avery turns to Wolfgang’s lackey, and then turns to the man himself. “Put your weapons on the ground. I’m taking out my caps. Two-fifty?”

 

“Two-fifty, even.” Wolfgang motions to Simone, and she rests her hunting rifle on the edge of the diner windows, crosses her arms.

 

Avery slings his backpack onto the floor and starts digging. Wolfgang shifts his weight from one leg, to the other as he watches the kid rummage around. Trudy still has her shotgun up and pointed at the doorway. 

 

Avery finds what he’s looking for, and he steels himself quickly as he raises some 10 millimeters in each hand, one for each head. 

 

“Don’t fucking move and keep the gun on the ledge. Give me every single cap you have.”

 

Trudy snorts, but this time it’s more of an impressed sound than an incredulous one. Maybe a bit of both. Wolfgang whips his head around to look at Simone, and Simone just clenches her hands up into fists and goes stiff. She reaches for the gun — “I SAID, DON’T FUCKING MOVE,” the kid screams — and looks back at Wolfgang uselessly. He sighs.

 

“God, you’re a real piece of work, you know that, kid?”

 

“Don’t talk to me unless you’re counting out your caps.” Despite his tiny frame, his youthful voice, and the obvious withdrawal-shakes in his wrists as he holds the pistols towards Wolfgang and Simone’s faces, Avery looks and sounds the part. Brow furrowed, and no sign of any uneasiness. Like he’s done this before.

 

Wolfgang, again, hired people like Simone, people like Avery, all lean and nimble. All knees and elbows. He wasn’t going to chance it, and Avery knew this from the start.

 

 

 

Avery didn’t count the caps, as it was both hard on his brain and tedious in general. He knew there were plenty, and that was good enough for him. He held the guns high, and swept the caps on the pavement closer to him with his boots.

 

“Trudy, mind stepping out here, please?” Avery calls, and he motions with the guns for Wolfgang and Simone to move over so she can get through the door. All parties comply.

 

“Come stand next to me, I want to make some agreements, yes?”

 

Wolfgang grunts. “I thought there was an implicit agreement already, here.”

 

Avery waits for Trudy to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with him.

 

“Wolfgang. Tell her you’re not going to bother her or her boy again, and mean it.”

 

Wolfgang shrugs.

 

Avery glances over at Trudy. “Trudy, do you trust that Wolfgang is not going to go near your property again, or hunt down you or Patrick?”

 

Trudy looks back at Avery. “Honestly? No.”

 

Avery quickly looks over Wolfgang and Simone again, top to bottom.

 

“Yeah, me neither,” he says, and Trudy flinches hard as their bodies fall in a heap.

 

 

 

 — — — 

 

 

 

Avery, bleary from sleep as the late morning sun gleams all along the metal trim of the diner windows, stretches and yawns. He looks over the back of the booth he’s sitting in and Trudy’s already awake, sweeping the floor. She looks up at him and gives him a curt smile.

 

“Good morning, Miss Trudy.”

 

“You gonna hit the road?”

 

Avery rubs at his eyes. “Yeah, I think so. You think Patrick is going to be okay?”

 

“I guess,” Trudy laughs, “He’s still in deep shit.”

 

“Please, don’t give him too hard of a time. Withdrawal is not nice. It’s a punishment all its own,” Avery mulls over. “You’re lucky it was Jet and not Psycho. Psycho can and will kill you if you stop it all wrong.”

 

Trudy props her broom up on the side of the cigarette dispenser. “You need anything before you head out?”

 

Avery purses his lips. “Yeah. How much Jet did you take from Patrick when you found out?”

 

“Three canisters.”

 

Avery smiles. “I’ll take those. Just take the caps I took off of Wolfgang.”

 

“All of them?”

 

Avery shrugs as he laces up his tattered boots. “I don’t need them.”

 

Trudy laughs again. “You’re a strange little man. Come back soon, hear?”

 

Avery slings his worn rifle over his back, followed by his backpack slung over one shoulder. “Yes, Miss Trudy.”

 

 

 

As Avery passes the diner’s neon sign, he huffs a can of Jet and finally feels his nerves stop burning.


	2. But What's Puzzling You, Is the Nature Of My Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danse, meet Avery. Avery, meet Danse.

 

 

Paladin Danse hated ghouls. 

 

They weren’t particularly strong, but they were fast, reckless, and unpredictable. The way they moved was unnatural, like a jerking marionette or a video holotape missing a few frames here and there. 

 

He didn’t consider himself a coward, but when he was on nightwatch when Haylen and Rhys were sleeping inside the station, his eyes darted perpetually to the dark corners, the spaces between ruins. Not one had gotten past him, because he was just so damn jumpy.

 

Rhys wasn’t so cautious. Didn’t take ghouls seriously. “You have to be fuckin’ kidding me”, he said as he bends over a lone ghoul that had wandered into the barricades, and is yanked backwards, head careening into a dumpster as two of them — no, three, now. A fourth — claw haphazardly at his suit, at his flesh. 

 

Rhys wasn’t the type to scream, but Danse and Haylen heard his struggle anyway. By the time they had dispatched the four that had attacked, the Cambridge station entrance was being completely overrun.

 

Where did all of these things _come_ from?

 

“Haylen, inside and make a distress call!” Danse orders, shoving several ghouls to the ground with the butt of his laser rifle. Haylen looks from Rhys (who was very much unconscious), to the door, and drags the man along the ground as carefully but as quickly as she can. 

 

“Danse! Promise me you have this covered,” Haylen yells over to him as she cracks open the door, hauling Rhys through. Danse couldn’t hear her. Covered in ferals front-to-back, he would have been overpowered if he wasn’t in power armor. Haylen decides to take a chance, and shuts the door. Moments later, she reappears in a nearby window, slamming it open quickly. “I’ll keep an eye out for you when I make the call!”

 

Danse wrenches his laser rifle out of a ghoul’s gaunt hands, stance wide as he tries to sturdy himself from the onslaught. He unloads several more energy cells' worth of laser into the ghouls as he attempts to back up, positioning himself against the brick of the station as to obstruct them from getting behind him. He listens closely, and very faintly hears Haylen recording the distress call from inside by the window.

 

A ghoul manages to jump high enough to thrash at his face, and it hurts but he steels himself through it. Danse decides that it isn’t the unpredictability, the spasmodic movement, or the strength in numbers that he truly hated about the ferals.

 

No. It was the screaming.

 

 

 

 — — — 

 

 

 

Haylen’s distress call, like much of the other distress calls made in the wasteland, falls on deaf ears. The campus around the police station was largely abandoned by anything intelligent, and the raiders that took up residence in the more intact areas didn’t operate a radio beyond keeping them permanently tuned into Diamond City.

 

Avery listened to Diamond City Radio, too, on his Pip-Boy. Clunky, cumbersome thing; hard to operate something so text-based when one doesn’t know how to read. Used to ask his companions to read it, before he went caravan-hopping to the Commonwealth, on the heels of a mystery. He knew how to find the radio: Turn the largest vertical knob all the way down, use the smaller one to search until the static becomes music. Simple.

 

As Avery kicked up pebbles along the ruined roads of the Cambridge Institute of Technology, he hummed to himself, to the radio. The air was quiet, a few crows here and there. Buses lay idle, once full of bright students and now full of forgotten skeletal remains and ruined textbooks. What they could have taught him, he wondered.

 

“ _Let me please introduce myself,_ ” Diamond City Radio sang to him, “ _I’m a man of wealth and taste._ ”

 

Avery scaled a wrought-iron fence, easily hoisting what little weight he had over the bars and sticking the landing. A two-centuries-young corpse in a green dress propped against the inside of the fence, a novel spread in her lap, under her hands. The pages were strewn across the courtyard; caught in the branches of a grand oak.

 

“ _And I laid traps for troubadours, who got killed before they reached Bombay.”_

 

The radio static whined a little when Avery dipped to the ground, low in the mud and dewy grass to slip under a broken gap in the fencing, emerging the other end slightly more damp than he was before. Grime, it stayed the same — Avery was always coated in it. It settled in the ridges of his skin, between the bruises and the burns.

 

“ _Pleased to meet you_ ,” Avery sang along in his small voice, to no one. “ _Hope you guessed my name_.”

 

The wind kicked up the closer he got to the police station. Some kind of otherworldly warning attempting to grace Avery. He scrunched up his nose, pulled his scarf over his mouth and nostrils. He pressed forward, shivering hands in his pockets.

 

Avery’s eyelashes flitted upwards, eyes bright and alive, when he saw a stray red beam light up the night just a block ahead, hitting a window across the road, shattering it to a million little pieces. He heard hoarse moaning and screaming, and he stopped dead in his tracks, throwing his backpack to the ground and rummaging through it. He wrapped boxing tape around his wrists, his palms, between his fingers expertly. Rehearsed and quick. 

 

He then started sprinting, throwing the backpack over his shoulders.

 

“ _Tell me, baby, what’s my name?_ ”

 

 

 

 — — —

 

 

 

Paladin Danse hated ghouls, but he hated being confused even more.

 

Spitting blood on the pavement, he thrusts the butt of his laser rifle into a feral’s skull and stares as a man lashes out haphazardly among a crowd of the vile things. His first instinct was to rush to the aid of a civilian, but the man was dispatching them with the swiftness of a stingwing and the reckless abandon of a ghoul himself.

 

Paladin Danse, with the ferals momentarily distracted by fresher blood, climbs up the stairs of the barricades surrounding the police station and fires at the ferals on the outer ends of the onslaught, the ones that haven’t yet reached the civilian. He can’t afford to shoot closer to him, in fear of a ricochet or a misfire. He strains his eyes but can’t make out everything that is going on. But the ghouls were falling. The man winces and grunts, but otherwise doesn’t attempt to say anything, focused. Danse watches as the man — did he just _bite it_? God, that’s disgusting.

 

It only takes a few more expended energy cells for the rest of the ferals to have been strewn across the pavement. He rushes down the steps, towards the panting frame of the man with the Pip-Boy that shone a sickly green light along the corpses and the blood. The music had stopped. Travis Miles, the Diamond City radio host, was stammering about something or another.

 

The civilian was on his hands and knees. He didn’t make eye contact and was breathing heavily.

 

“Do you require medical assistance?” Danse asks, loud and clear like a model soldier.

 

The man smiles up at him, eyes bloodshot and big. “Hi! No. No, I’m good.” He wipes some saliva away from his mouth and attempts to stand. He fails and stumbles forwards a little. He tries again. He makes it this time.

 

“What’s your name, civilian?” Danse asks.

 

“Oh, I’m Avery,” the man smiles, scratching at his arm and worrying a bruise. “I saw you were in trouble.”

 

“You picked up the distress signal?”

 

“The what?”

 

“On your radio.”

 

“What about my radio?” The man makes eye contact this time, his eyes are wide and bright and sick with… Something. Danse raises his eyebrow.

 

“Nevermind.” He pauses, trying to think of how to continue. How to not jeopardize the mission.

 

“Who are you?” The man named Avery asks.

 

“I’m…” ( _Do I trust this civilian, or not? What would Maxson do?_ )

 

“You’re a Paladin,” the man named Avery states, walking forward, touching Danse’s power armor where the rank insignia lay. “But what’s your name?”

 

Interesting.

 

“Paladin Danse, Brotherhood of Steel. You are familiar with us? Our chapter is not from the area.”

 

“Oh, I’m not from here, either,” the man says. He’s so small, Danse thinks to himself. He towers over him. He wonders if he should crouch down or if this would be considered condescending. He decides to stay tall. “Are you alone?”

 

“Where are you from, civilian?” Danse ignores the question.

 

“Oh, I’m from very far away. Um, from Freeside. With the Old Mormon Fort.”

 

The what?

 

He tries again. “The Mojave desert. Very far, very warm. It’s so cold here, Paladin Danse.” The man named Avery sniffles and brings his tattered scarf up above his nose.

 

 _Very_ interesting.

 

Danse calls out to Haylen. “Scribe Haylen, I’m allowing a civilian into the station. Please remove whatever you barricaded the door with.”

 

“Huh? Could you repeat that?” Haylen approaches the window frame and looks out. She sees Danse and the stranger. “Oh.” She leaves again, leaving Paladin Danse repeating the order to absolutely no one. 

 

Danse stops mid-sentence, and presses his lips together. The man named Avery laughs, gentle and sweet.

 

 


	3. I Think Your Bruise Was Understated / It's Getting Bluer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My tumblr, and more Avery: http://barfyscorpion.tumblr.com/tagged/avery
> 
> This chapter brought to you by the determination and excitement that fills me when someone leaves a comment on my work. You guys rock.

 

 

Danse is sat at the radio, with his boots propped up on some boxes of files that lost their use a couple centuries ago.

 

The message was getting nowhere. Danse furrows his brow, rubs at his temples. They were too far, the distress signal wouldn’t reach and the Prydwen lay in wait somewhere in the Capital Wasteland. It had been almost a month and a half without contact, but the Paladin did not expect a search party. No, Danse thinks as he taps a pen against the desk. Just like Paladin Brandis, and the lost patrol he led here, never to be seen again.

 

Beyond the small archway, in the main hall of the station, Haylen works patiently on Rhys’ stitches. Avery has Rhys propped up against his chest on the floor, keeping him steady with his small hands as Rhys occasionally stirs and groans in his Med-X-induced sleep.

 

Rhys tries to turn his head, and Avery holds him in place. Haylen shushes him as she attends to the large gash down the side of his forehead. “Easy, soldier.” Haylen is sure Rhys can’t hear her, but it helps her calm herself. Avery smiles at her soft words.

 

 

 

 

Danse’s heavy footsteps approach the archway and pause. “Haylen is an outstanding scribe,” he says to Avery. “We’re lucky to have her.”

 

“You flatterer,” Haylen smirks, scoffing. She wets a cloth and starts cleaning the blood surrounding the stitched wound; Rhys groans. “Paladin Danse runs a tight ship, and we sail on trust. I’d trust the big guy with my life. It’s how it is out here,” she says. Avery nods, quiet.

 

“The Brotherhood relies on the discipline and the camaraderie of its soldiers. We’d fall apart if we didn’t have an element of trust; or purposefully undermined each other,” Danse says.

 

“Are your friends coming for you?” Avery asks, voice just above a whisper. He shifts with Rhys in his lap, uncomfortable against the cold floor, the concrete wall. He meets Danse’s eyes with concern. Danse feels uncomfortable when Avery looks at him, so he turns his attention to the clock on the wall, permanently stuck at 9:47.

 

Haylen’s voice cuts through his thoughts. “They will, once we figure out how to increase our airwave coverage,” she sighs, exasperated. “I know we could modify the equipment on top of the station with a few parts, but I’m no engineer.”

 

Danse clears his throat. “That can wait. The first move is clear: find the parts. We know we need a deep-range transmitter, and I think we can find one at ArcJet to the northwest.”

 

“You’re bringing Avery, I take it?” Haylen raises her eyebrow at Danse.

 

“No, I can’t have a civilian as a liability,” Danse says. Avery is still looking up at him, and so Danse looks out the window. “He has proven to be a considerably good fighter, but at the end of the day,” Danse crosses his arms. “He’s not even initiated. I don’t even know if he plans on stay — “

 

“With all due respect, sir.” Haylen interrupts, packing up her medical supplies. “He’s right here. You can talk to him directly.”

 

Paladin Danse sighs and, finally, looks over at Avery. “I’m… I apologize for being curt. I don’t know if it’s right to be asking you for a favor. You do not owe anything to my patrol. You are free to leave,” he concludes, and he shrinks back into the room with the ham radio.

 

Haylen rolls her eyes, and slides her hands under Rhys’ arms and lays him down on a sleeping bag. Avery’s eyes slide from the archway where Danse had stood, to his own shoelaces. Avery brings his knees to his chest, resting his chin upon them.

 

“You don’t need to go anywhere,” Haylen speaks low, sitting next to Avery on the ground. Avery doesn’t reply, just nods a little.

 

 

 

 

Over the past couple of hours, Avery had attached himself to her, asking her if she needs help and working hard to keep Rhys still. She could tell that he was… Simple. He spoke in very short sentences, often repeating himself and searching for the correct word. But he wanted to help, and was trying. No matter.

 

She saw the track marks, and the shivering. Saw a lot of wastelander initiates in much the same condition. It wasn’t something she thought was a dealbreaker, and so she tried her best to accustom him to how they had been living and working in the station. In hopes that perhaps, perhaps he would stick around.

 

There was only the three of them, and she was growing desperate. Desperate for either a new recruit or a lifeline to the Prydwen. Paladin Danse was wearing himself extremely thin; his health was declining. Rhys was now incapacitated for at least the coming week. And she had lost four squadmates already. She didn’t want to lose a single one, and she was losing them all.

 

 Haylen watches as Avery’s eyes flutter closed, then open a little less than they were before, bangs in his face.

 

“Why does Paladin Danse hate me?” Avery looks up, tired.

 

“I know Danse seems like a hard-ass,” Haylen sighs. “He’s really a great guy. Just… Protocol’s his bread and butter. He spoke highly of your combat skills, and he reserves that sort of thing. He doesn’t hate you. He…”

 

Avery turns his head, one cheek propped up on his knee, attention on Haylen. “He won’t look at me. Why doesn’t he look at me?”

 

Haylen pauses. She looks Avery over for a little while. Avery doesn’t seem to mind. He’s distant; barely awake.

 

Haylen didn’t want to be blunt with Avery — she had been trying to make a good impression on him, keep him interested. And he had been sacrificing his evening for them. She knew what was wrong, but struggled to say it: Danse, for all of his good qualities and all of his strengths and all the things Haylen admired him for, was a very judgmental person. 

 

The Brotherhood had conditioned Danse to look down upon certain people in society. Haylen disagreed with this aspect of the Brotherhood — many of her brothers and sisters did. But Danse was the perfect soldier. Followed everything by the book, always by the book. And so he became cold.

 

Cold and uncaring to people like Avery — she trained her eyes over his cuts and track marks, the scratches that lined his neck and the heavy scarring and burning that peeked out beneath his shirt collar. Watched as Avery’s eyes, golden in the dim tungsten light of the station, struggled to maintain a place to stay, looking all around even in exhaustion. His pupils dilated, his muscles tensing, failing to rest.

 

 

 

 

She reached out to touch Avery’s arm, and he flinches, hard.

 

“You gonna get some sleep?” She asks.

 

Avery nods, and buries his face further into his knees. “Yes. I want to be awake to go with Danse tomorrow.”

 

Haylen smiles. Thank god Danse hadn’t drove him away. She pulls her sleeping bag over closer to her, unzipping it flat and throwing it over Avery’s shoulders, then hers.

 

“Thanks. I was cold.”

 

“I know.” She smiles.

 

Avery is content, for a while. Haylen is still, and she listens. Danse’s tell-tale tapping of his pen in his hand, his heel bouncing on the floor, is ever-present with the hum of the ham radio in the other room. She knows he will not sleep. He hasn’t in days.

 

He won’t talk about it.

 

 

 

 

“Scribe Haylen, can I tell you something?” Avery is just barely above a whisper.

 

“Hm?”

 

Avery smiles. “You remind me of a friend. From far away, back home.” 

 

His hand — clean now, but still gaunt and beaten, knuckles purple and veins blue — reaches up to a stray lock of hair that had fallen from her ponytail, tucks it behind her ear.

 

“With… Orange, orange hair; fair skin. And care beyond measure. Though, she didn’t always admit it.”

 

Haylen closes her eyes, and laughs lowly. “Sometimes I think I care a little too much.”

 

“No,” Avery says, shifting and eyes falling shut. “No, they need you.”

 

 

 

 

Haylen laces her fingers together, closes her eyes. Listens to the tapping, the thumping, the restlessness. The groans of a morphine-dazed, numb dream. The soft tremors and twitches that emanate through Avery’s sleeping frame.

 

The quiet suffering.

 

 


	4. Is Anybody Home?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that I updated this so late-- I write very, very slowly. My bad.
> 
> http://barfyscorpion.tumblr.com

Avery spoke poorly. His speech was peppered with pauses, repetition. He didn’t have a stutter — his words came out concise when he managed to spit them out, small and too quiet. He stood in the archway, hands clenched into nervous fists. It took him a little while.

 

“I’m coming with you,” he finally says to Danse in the broken light of the station blinds. Danse says nothing, but places his pen on the desk neatly. “I’m… I want to help. You shouldn’t do it alone.”

 

Danse sighs, swivels around on the chair to face Avery, runs one hand first over each of his tired eyes and then in a small attempt to smooth out his hair. “Did Scribe Haylen put you up to this?”

 

“No,” Avery says. “She didn’t. I just, I just know it’s a bad idea.”

 

He paused again.

 

“Paladin Danse, you are tired.” Avery shifts his weight onto his other leg, leans against the archway. “You are tired and you are sick.”

 

Danse looks towards Avery. Doesn’t mean to meet his eyes, but he does, because it’s very hard not to. And in the light of the morning, they are pale and gray and clean. Clean and forward and washed of whatever sinful substance took hold of him last night, the kind of poison that leads someone to claw at things when a gun would do fine; the kind that leads someone to sink their broken teeth into the rotten flesh of a feral.

 

Fine.

 

“ArcJet Systems is a mile or two to the northwest of the station. If you’re accompanying, get your gear in order; you can find some supplies behind the reception desk in marked containers.”

 

Avery unclenches his hands and wipes his palms on his jeans. “I won’t let you down, Paladin Danse.”

 

Danse almost says ‘dismissed’, but Avery’s already gone.

 

 

 — -

 

 

“It looks as if we’re not alone.” Danse stands in the small security area that lay in ruins; it wouldn’t have looked out of place had the majority of ArcJet not been so clean, so clearly locked-down for quite some time.

 

Avery sinks to his knees, digs through the broken remains of protectrons destroyed mere inches from their stations, pocketing any parts that he deems useful. From what benchmark, Danse has no idea.

 

“This job is far too sophisticated for raiders,” Danse continues, “and if I have to hazard a guess by the nature of this building and its purpose, it’s probably synths.”

 

Avery purses his lips and pushes himself up just a little bit to balance on the balls of his feet, stares up with wide eyes. “The Institute? You think the Institute was here?”

 

“Yes — you’re aware of them? How much do you know?” Danse supposes he shouldn’t be surprised at this point. He pauses and waits for a response, and Avery doesn’t have one. “ArcJet was the proprietor of some rather sophisticated technology. There’s a chance they may even be here for the same thing we’re after, if we’re unfortunate.”

 

“Then let’s go,” Avery stands up, clenches and unclenches his fists, rotates his shoulders. “I’m ready.”

 

Danse looks down at Avery’s sets of brass knuckles and frowns. “Have you ever been in combat with a synth before?”

 

Avery looks back, brows furrowed, as if he’s trying to sort out his memories, rifling through them in his head. He shrugs. “No.”

 

“They’re metal and plastic, soldier. I’d advise long-range weaponry.”

 

“I don’t like it. Guns, I mean. I shake too much. And the sights are difficult.”

 

Danse frowns, his grip on his laser rifle tightening; it’s a reflex borne of irritation. “You wouldn’t have issues with either if you stopped taking those chems.”

 

“No, no,” Avery says, inflection unclear. 

 

And that’s all he says. Danse waits for an explanation, or a rebuttal, but there’s nothing.

 

 

 — — 

 

 

Avery can not use a terminal, but he has a way with manual locks. Danse watches as Avery lays on the floor next to the safe on his stomach, miniature screwdriver in one hand and bobby pin fishing around inside of a lock with the other. Danse sits in a chair at the desk terminals on the bottom floor of the rocket propulsion test site, watching with mild curiosity.

 

The fluorescent light above flickers off every once and a while, and Danse flinches every time.

 

“What’s wrong?” Avery chews on the ends of two more bobby pins, held in his mouth as he works.

 

Danse straightens up in his seat. “Nothing.”

 

“Got it,” Avery says, teeth clenched around the pins. He sits up and yanks the safe open. “Looks like keys.”

 

“Perfect, that’s what we’re looking for.” Danse catches the small keychain when Avery gives them a light toss, slowly getting up on his feet. “Once we get the elevator working, we should find what we need on the top floor.”

 

 

 — — 

 

 

Danse hears shuffling beyond the walls as they get off the elevator. Safety off, he looks back at Avery, and he’s still without a weapon, looking past him and at the large double-doors down the corridor, biting his lip.

 

“Avery.”

 

“Uh-huh?” Avery jumps a little, as if he was woke from a dream. Danse frowns. Have to keep him focused.

 

“Fall back behind the doors, one of us on each side. The synths are all likely armed with laser weaponry and you do not have the armor to rush in front of — “

 

Danse instinctively jumps in front of Avery as the doors across the hall slide open. Avery yelps and makes himself small in the cover of the power armor. It’s dark, but Danse can see the silhouette step through the doorway and he fires, red light flashing bright between the walls, and there’s a yell.

 

“ _Mother of God!_ ”

 

A human one.

 

Danse freezes in place as he sees the body fall to the floor. The sleep deprivation was making him oversensitive to stimuli, and it takes his heart a couple seconds to stop palpitating. 

 

“Boss!” A hoarse voice yells out, and the body on the floor scrambles behind the doors, sounding more scared than hurt. Avery peeks out from behind Danse’s hulking frame and makes a concerned sort of hum.

 

Danse clears his throat. “Holding fire! Civilians, state your purpose, I do not intend to harm!”

 

The same hoarse voice calls out from the left of the door frame. “Is that so? Well _that_ plan went pretty poorly, huh?” There’s a whimper from the downed man, and the tougher voice says something in hushed tones.

 

Avery looks up at Danse with his lips pressed in a straight line, brow furrowed. He lets go of his power armor and walks forward down the hallway, sneakers crunching down on broken glass and rubble.

 

“Avery, don’t jeopardize the miss — “ but it’s too late, and Danse exhales in the sort of way a bull does before charging whatever is bothering it.

 

“Um, excuse me,” Avery says gently, “Are you hurt? I am sorry.”

 

There’s a sigh, and Avery jumps a little when the tall figure of a ghoul walks out beyond the door frame, one arm hooked around an assault rifle and the other adjusting the brim of his hat.

 

He looks down at Avery without moving his head, expression tired and neutral. He then glances over at Danse in the same fashion.

 

“Is your… _Friend,_ there, going to be a problem?” The ghoul hoists his rifle at the ready, looking and speaking to Avery but pointing the weapon at Danse.

 

“N-no. Shouldn’t be! Um.” Avery turns to Danse. “Are we okay?”

 

“No, things are _not_ okay.” Danse starts, looking disgusted. “Why are you wasting your time talking to it?”

 

The ghoul says nothing, eyes instead boring into Avery, neutral as ever.

 

“I… I mean, we, we are here, to look for something. We didn’t know anyone else was here, I am being honest.” Avery says, and the ghoul lowers his weapon.

 

“Hmph. We got what we came here for,” the ghoul says, “Guess you can look around.”

 

“Edward, what on _earth_ is going on?” A frustrated voice calls out.

 

Avery blinks, and struggles for words before blurting out, “My name is Avery, and — “

 

“Yeah, I didn’t ask for that, kid,” Edward says, roughly patting Avery’s shoulder and turning away. “There were a handful of synths in here, but lucky for you, I cleaned them up.”

 

Avery turns his head back to Danse, and Danse nods.

 

“Now if you’ll excuse me,” Edward turns back into the room, and Avery beckons Danse to come forward, and he walks into the large room and starts rifling through cabinets and desks.

 

Danse glares hard over to the ghoul and his companion, laser rifle humming at the ready. He speaks lowly to Avery, with a hint of irritation still lingering on his tongue. “I know what we’re looking for, let me do it.”

 

Avery frowns, and withdraws from the storage, walking back over to Edward as Danse searches.

 

Edward is kneeling, dabbing water on a small wound on the arm of a young man sitting on the floor against the wall, donned head-to-toe in some sort of hazmat suit, helmet tucked under one arm. His short dark hair is disheveled, and his glasses crooked on his hooked nose. The stranger pays no mind to Avery at all, eyes darting between his wound, the wet cloth, and Edward.

 

Avery speaks quietly. “I’m so sorry, I owe you something. Owe you this. Here,” he says, as he rifles through his backpack and places a roll of bandages and a blister pack of standard painkillers. “I do not have any stimpaks, I am sorry. You can also um, here,” and he places a handful of caps on the ground with a small _clink_.

 

Edward huffs, not angrily but with a sort of amusement behind it. “You travel without stims?” He reaches for the bandages and tears some off the roll with his teeth. “Thanks.”

 

The dark-haired man finally looks at Avery, and Avery smiles kindly at him, eyes bright. The man frowns, but takes the painkillers from the floor and snaps it open, downing it with the water Edward was using to clean the wound.

 

“Keep the caps.” Edward says, giving the stranger’s arm a pat and holding his hand out, hoisting his companion up to his feet and brushing dust off of his hazmat suit. “Don’t need them.”

 

Danse calls out to Avery. “Found what we were searching for; debrief outside.” He glares again at the ghoul. “Alone.”

 

“Are you going to be alright?” Avery asks, and Edward nods.

 

“Yeah. Just going to get this guy home.”

 

“I am so sorry. Again,” Avery sighs, looking between him and the stranger, now donning the hazmat helmet, face obscured. “I hope we meet again, on better terms,” he smiles, and he follows Danse hurriedly out of the room, Danse moving unusually fast and stiff, pretending to ignore their company.

 

Edward’s worn lips curl into a sort of smile. 

 

“Yeah, see ya, kid.”


	5. Between the Waves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short one for today. Hopefully now we're getting to the meat of the story! Thanks for reading.
> 
> http://barfyscorpion.tumblr.com

Avery has to hold his scarf over his nose when he walks down the shallow steps entering the city. Smoke and steam held a permanence between the green walls, despite the market being open-air. It was a necessity: Diamond City, with all its luxuries impressive for the area —  its full power grid and purifiers and all of the makings of a roughly-modern settlement —  relied heavily on crude generators, billowing thick black smoke. The people, too, however fortunate they were, relied on cigarettes.

 

He stops at a trash bin at the bottom of the steps and slings his backpack off of his shoulders, carefully discarding the disarray of used syringes, aluminum wrappers, papers, a couple of bottles. Didn’t feel right to leave them on the ground, he reasoned. Occupied a majority of the space of his pack, but to Avery’s muddled mind, it was better than the alternative.

 

“Yikes.” Young Natalie Wright clung to his waist behind him, watching with mild amusement. Avery looked back as he adjusted the straps and buckles of his knapsack, smiled, maneuvered his elbow around her clumsily to bring a hand down to ruffle her soft, dark hair.

 

“Piper says that stuff’ll kill you.”

 

“She’s right,” Avery raises his eyebrows. “Don’t do drugs.”

 

“Stones from glass houses.” Nat was sure this sort of idiom would fly over Avery’s head. It did, and she rolled her eyes. “Where’d you go?”

 

“North. Um... Met some new people.” Avery nudged her with his hip, and she stepped back a bit so he could turn around and start walking to the front of Nat’s newsstand a couple feet away. Kicking back the wood crate Nat stood upon selling her papers, he sat down on it and threw his backpack to the floor, along with his jacket. Nat climbed into his lap. “Where’s your sister?”

 

“Out.” Nat shrugs. “She’s mad at you.”

 

“Because I left?” Avery sniffles under his scarf.

 

“Because you left _without telling anyone_ ,” Nat scoffs at him. Avery bounces his knees, and she laughs a little. “I’m almost too heavy for you to do that.”

 

“But you use me as playground equipment anyway.” Avery scrunches up his nose sarcastically. Nat sighs and rolls off of him and sits on the floor.

 

“So?” Nat says inquisitively. “What’d you do?”

 

Avery hums. “Do you know anything about the Brotherhood of Steel?”

 

“No, other than the fact they sound edgy.”

 

“Well, a small group of people from the Brotherhood of Steel need my help. Um, more like, need Sturges’ help.” Avery shrugs. “They need some… Radio, thing, repaired. So I came back. They’re not that far from here.”

 

“Sturges left to Sanctuary to do… Something. Something about water purifiers or whatever. He should be back in a few days.”

 

Avery runs the heel of his sneaker through the dirt. “Okay. Gives me some time to stick around.”

 

Nat stands up and grabs Avery’s arm, all bruised and bony and light. “C’mon, then. Come with me, we got shit to do.”

 

“Don’t swear.” Avery stands up and allows her to lead, grabbing hold of his fingers and charging down the dirt street dramatically. He already knows where they’re going; it’s always where Nat is going.

 

 

 

Avery wound up in Diamond City in tow with a caravan. A long way from Nevada; Avery had asked Francine Garrett to help him roughly map out a network of caravans to travel behind to get to his destination. He couldn’t remember everything exactly, but with some trial and error, he managed to follow the routes to Boston over some long months. The air grew colder the further he went, and Avery felt a homesickness creep into his chest the nights he spent looking over the barren fields of the midwest; the rocky hills that quickly changed from red to gray as he left the sands.

Diamond City was not the most grand or interesting settlement he had passed along the way, but it was the most important in the area. And Avery thought the best place to start looking for a missing person was the place with the most people. The logic was a little flawed and misguided, but close enough to the correct answer. And luck would have it that he landed in just the right hands for the job.

 

 

 

Natalie Wright doesn’t even bother banging on the metal door before she enters, she just sort of barges in and kicks her yellow rubber boots off into the corner of the entrance unceremoniously, as if it were her house.

 

“Nick! Ellie!” She yells, in the empty office of Valentine Detective Agency. Avery shuts the door behind them and takes a seat on the client side of the front desk, rests his head in his arms. Nat bounces past him and into the back of the office, instead.

 

“Nat, just a sec,” Nick yells back from the attic somewhere. There’s some rustling of papers and the groan of a worn box spring.

 

“Yeah, yeah, put a shirt on,” the ever-brash little lady says, in her best Nick Valentine impression; a handsome accent from a region long lost to time that Nat nor Avery could put a finger on. Avery always snorts, because the impression’s honestly pretty good. “No one wants to see that!”

 

“Oh, can it, would ya?” There’s the sound of shoes descending the metal ladder from the attic, and Nick lowers his voice to a respectable tone. “Give this old bucket of bolts a break.”

 

“Avery’s back.” Nat says.

 

“Oh, good.” Nick says, very simply and kindly. There’s some gentle mechanical whirring as Nick bends to allow Nat to tackle him in a hug, and Nick braces himself audibly a little when she jumps onto him. “Kid, you’re getting too old for this.”

 

Nat soon walks back to Avery, and pulls up another chair next to him. She is wearing Nick’s hat, and has a proud sort of purse to her lips.

 

Nick runs his hand through Avery’s hair as he walks past him to sit down; his left one, the hand with the rubber still intact. Gentler, warmer than his right hand, stripped bare to the metal skeleton. Avery doesn’t mind either way.

 

“The cat came back, hm?” Nick smiles. “Not gonna lie, could go for a cigarette, but I won’t light up now that you’re home.”

 

“Why do you smoke, anyway?” Nat chides.

 

“Take your pick. Force of habit, something to do with my hands, something that reminds me of simpler times?” Nick instead opts for pushing his chair back, leaning over to turn the coffee maker on. “Avery. I haven’t made much progress on the case.”

 

“Oh,” Avery says, small. Not disappointed, just sort of an observation.

 

“The leads I had got me nowhere, but that’s to be expected when we’re dealing with something like the Institute.” Nick reaches into his deep trench coat pocket and pulls out a notepad, flicks a couple pages back, all filled with a messy, impracticed scrawl, all capital letters and broken spacing. Better to let his secretary write the reports. “But I still have contacts that I haven’t touched base with yet. We’ll see if they have any information in due time. Have just had my hands full and couldn’t make it out of town.”

 

“I don’t mind, Mr. Valentine. You’re doing your best.”

 

“Just want to get your friend back, kid.” Nick frowns. “Such things, missing persons cases, are always heartbreaking, but even so, one that leads someone to travel from one end of the country to the other…”

 

“I know it’s them.” Avery says, lips pressed into a straight line, as they often do when he is worried. “I’m… I’m not bright, or, or anything, but. It just makes sense. You see it. Piper sees it.”

 

Nick dabs the end of his fountain pen in the nearby inkwell idly. “The Institute rears its ugly head, swallowing any people of political importance, and suddenly the Enclave is going completely quiet. And miles away, some ex-Enclave personnel are turning up missing.” He gets up and starts taking coffee mugs out of the cupboard. “Doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together. Someone is cleaning up loose ends. Let’s hope they’re not ‘cleaning up’ in the old mob sense of the phrase.”

 

Avery nods, and closes his eyes.

 

Nick glances over at him, and his heart drops. “Sorry, kid. That was really insensitive of this old man… Was sort of running at the mouth. I didn’t catch myself.”

 

“Nick, I know he might be dead.” Avery stares hard into the coffee cup Nick hands him, warms his bruised hands. “I know.”

 

“Doesn’t make it right,” Nick says. 

 

He, too, has a mug of coffee, but it stays between his hands, never lifted. Will keep it there as it grows cold.

 


	6. Housecall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! Something short today.
> 
> http://barfyscorpion.tumblr.com

 

 

Someone gently knocks on the door. Danse doesn’t look up from the array of papers in front of him, reports written in a practiced and firm cursive. He returns the pen to the inkwell, and clasps his hands together.

 

“Yeah?”

 

Haylen nudges the door open with her hip, hands busy with a bowl of soup and a couple of granola bars. She smiles a little, strawberry-blonde hair spilling over her face as she maneuvers around the many boxes littering the police chief’s office, placing everything on Danse’s desk, careful to avoid his papers.

 

“You gotta eat, big guy.”

 

Danse sighs, and rubs his brow again. He’s always doing that. “Thanks. Dismissed.”

 

“Negative, sir.” Haylen kicks a chair over to the opposite side of the desk, and swings her legs over it, sitting with her hands clasped in front of her just like her superior. “I’m not leaving until you’re finished.”

 

Danse smirks, and laughs lowly. “Is it really necessary?” He takes the spoon and idly plays with his soup.

 

“As your doctor? Yes. As your friend?” Haylen’s eyes are blue and bright. “Yes! You’re overworking yourself and you’re not getting away with it.”

 

“Fine.” He picks up the bowl, and makes a big show of knocking back half the soup. He exaggerates an ‘ _ahh_ ’ as he returns it to the desk, and Haylen laughs. “It tastes awful.”

 

“Sure does.”

 

Scribe Haylen always goes above and beyond the call of duty. Has intelligence and a natural aptitude for her work. Has a capable head on her shoulders that Danse, despite being her superior, looks up to. He values her input and advice.

 

Haylen loosens each of the fingers of her field gloves, and removes them, placing them in her lap. She twines her thin, untarnished fingers with Danse’s, and runs her thumb along the side of his hand. Danse looks from his hand, to Haylen. She cocks her head to the side and smiles, raising her eyebrow.

 

He smiles back. He values her.

 

 

 

 — — — — 

 

 

 

The wastelander returns with a friend, and a dog. Avery bounces up the steps of the precinct, ruffling the hair of a German shepherd about half his size, too big to run around his legs at risk of toppling him over.

 

“Welcome back,” Haylen is sat behind the reception desk, unpacking and repacking medical supplies into tighter containers. Knight Rhys looks up from his magazine, looks from Avery to Haylen.

 

“Scribe Haylen, this is Sturges and Dogmeat, his, uh, well, dog.” Avery smiles, and smooths down Dogmeat’s fur. “Sturges, Scribe Haylen, Knight Rhys — “ Avery furrows his brow and pauses, looks around the precinct.

 

“Paladin Danse is already on the roof,” Haylen supplies. “Sturges, thank you for agreeing to help.” She laughs, “I’d stand and shake your hand but there’s a lap full of bandages and a desk in the way.”

 

Sturges is the very picture of a greasemonkey. Haylen knows the type well. Built and capable, with calloused hands and eternally cursed with a black grime along their skin from their work, up to their elbows. She’s got a soft spot for engineers, and he’s handsome, to boot.

 

He brings two of his fingers to his forehead, giving her a polite, casual little salute. “No need, ma’am. A pleasure. I can get this thing broadcastin’ from here to the Capital, no sweat.” He claps his hands together and Dogmeat barks excitedly. “Jus’ point me to it, an’ it’s as good as done.” 

 

A Southern drawl. Haylen is enamored. Rhys looks at her and rolls his eyes, mutters something under his breath.

 

Avery does not meet Knight Rhys’ eyes. When Rhys had regained consciousness and met Avery and Danse at the front of the precinct when they arrived back from ArcJet, he had immediately become cross with him. Avery did not know what he had done wrong, but he stayed quiet. And despite Danse’s irritation with him earlier, Danse defended him and his choice to allow him to assist. Avery, always grasping at words and apologies and solutions, decided it was best if he stayed out of Rhys’ way. It was a mutual, non-verbal agreement. Rhys pretended Avery simply did not exist.

 

 

 

When Avery had left, Scribe Haylen approached Danse about their trip to ArcJet. Danse was still unimpressed with Avery; felt he was too flighty, too hard to control. Wouldn’t make a good soldier, no, he wouldn’t. 

But Haylen emphasized Avery’s honesty, his willingness to help. His connections. His independent search for the Institute, and who knows what amount of progress and research beyond their own. All good points. And if it were anyone else, Danse wouldn’t have agreed so readily to allow Avery to keep their company, but it was Scribe Haylen. And he was certain that Haylen was a better judge of character.

Perhaps he was being too harsh. But didn’t he have to be? He is safeguarding two subordinates. Two very valuable and capable soldiers. Outside variables endanger the shield he had raised.

 

 

 

“Paladin Danse!” The wastelander smiles wide, as if meeting an old friend. And he’s clean this time, washed of the weeks of blood and grime and sin, hair as orderly as it looks it will ever be, eyes clear and happy.

 

Good.

 

“Did you find instructions to utilize the deep-range transmitter?” Danse wonders if he was being too direct. Great, he was becoming self-conscious on behalf of Scribe Haylen. Just great.

 

“Um, no, but, I…” Avery’s cheerful, bouncy demeanor falters just for a second and he bites his lip. The sound of scampering paws coming up the stairs behind him reminds him, and he perks up again. “Paladin Danse, I brought my friend from Diamond City. He — “ He whips his head back at the doorway again, waits for Sturges to climb up the stairs and into view, Sturges putting his hand up over his eyes and smiling at the Paladin in front of them. “Paladin Danse, this is Sturges, and he is very smart.”

 

Paladin Danse is momentarily tense at the appearance of the stranger’s dog. His body locks up and he tries to regain composure. Never did well with ‘domesticated’ animals. Too unpredictable. Too unreadable. Clenches his fists one at a time. Stares straight ahead at the stranger.

 

Sturges laughs, and ruffles Avery’s hair as he walks towards the radio beacon. “Well, I dunno about _that_ , but I’m good with whatchamacallits, whatsits and other forms of gadgets. And this right here,” He digs into his back pocket to hold the deep-range transmitter. “Is somethin’ I know how to install just fine.”

 

Danse looks behind the stranger, and relaxes a little. Avery is distracted and on the ground with the dog, ruffling his fur and under the dog’s chin, laughing gently as the animal pounces him and licks his face.

 

“Excellent. Let me know where I can lend a hand.” Danse’s tone is as even as ever, and Sturges gives him a firm nod as he crouches down on the rooftop. 

 

Danse and Sturges get to work, and besides the slight flinches every time Dogmeat barks, everything is in order.

 

 

 


	7. From Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My internet's been out forever, and it still is, but I wanted to get this published. Between that and my inability to think straight, updating is difficult, but I'm passionate about this story. Action next!

 

 

Sturges is the kind of person that Danse hates to love. Because Sturges is the kind of person, the kind of bright-but-relaxed personality, that makes Danse put his guard down. He can't afford to be unguarded. He knows. But Scribe Haylen, Knight Rhys, and the wastelander are downstairs, content and (as far as he knows) getting a good night's rest with the windows boarded up securely and the door reinforced.

 

And the air is so invigorating. A bit cold, but the wind is warm. From the rooftop of the precinct Danse can see the neat lines of trees that line the campus roads, just barely turning colour as fall approaches. Danse welcomes the change. Has always associated summer with heavy travel, as it's the easiest time to relocate squads. Has just started to associate summer with loss, with helplessness; with sweat, with blood.

 

"Mr. Danse. Smoke?" Sturges nudges him with a pack of cigarettes. Danse opens his eyes.

 

"No, thank you."

 

"Me neither." Sturges chuckles, and puts the pack away in his back pocket. Sturges is chewing on the end of a toothpick, and holding it between his teeth gives his voice a snarling quality that Danse finds peculiar. "So. I reckon you don't wanna talk about why you're here. Or your story. And I don't blame ya, so let's leave it be."

 

Danse doesn't react, just wrings his hands between each other absently, eyes falling upon the trees.

 

"I take it you've got young Avery joinin' up with you?" The wastelander. Not Brotherhood material. Too unfocused, too wrapped up in vices.

 

Danse shakes his head. "I'm not sure."

 

"No? That's a real shame." Sturges runs a hand up his forehead and through the front of his hair. Just like Danse does; just like Scribe Haylen tells him he does when he needs something to do with his hands.

 

Danse bites. "Why is that?"

 

Sturges takes the toothpick out of his mouth, twirls it between his index and middle fingers. And he turns his head and smiles.

 

"Because the boy's a _tryer_. He lives in Diamond City, has been there for... Couple months, now." Danse looks between the buildings in front of the precinct, past the river. Sees the light of the city peeking out over the horizon.

 

"He shows up one day. From the opposite end of the continent. And he's here for his personal reasons, but he's concerned with the folks around him, too. Ain't even met them proper. But he's got a heart of gold, he does. And he's just hunkered down and running errands, fixin' things." Sturges shrugs. "The boy can't read, and can't shoot straight, neither. And I've seen folks taking advantage of him. But Mr. Danse: he ain't stupid."

 

Danse furrows his brow. "Go on."

 

Sturges flicks the toothpick off the side of the roof, readjusts himself. And despite himself, Danse is making eye contact. Sturges has the kind of charisma that can permeate walls.

 

"You can present him with a basket of identical, pristine apples. And he'll reach over and immediately find you the one that's rotten when you crack it open."

 

"I don't understand."

 

"Not one for metaphor? Heh," Sturges smiles. "And I thought that was a pretty good one. No matter."

 

Danse smiles, but he's frustrated. This happens too much. He _can't_ understand. He feels stupid.

 

"What I'm sayin', Mr. Danse, is that young Avery sees the good in everyone. Even the folks who you, or me, might think aren't the most savory of characters. But when someone's bad... And I mean, _really_  bad?"

  
Sturges finally breaks eye contact, and Danse can breathe. But his voice is serious, and it pulls him back under again.

 

"He'll sniff 'em out. And believe me. You better heed his warning."

 

Danse says nothing. Just maintains eye contact. And he relaxes a little, when Sturges relaxes his grave expression to a lazy little smirk.

 

"But hey, that's why I came out here to help you an' your folks, right?" Sturges reaches over with his rough hand and gives Danse's shoulder a little shake. "The boy trusts you. You and I, we're strangers, but Avery knows you're a well-meaning bunch, so I know it, too."

 

Danse smiles. He thinks of Scribe Haylen, and of Knight Rhys. Rhys, a little too headstrong and sometimes insubordinate, but someone who'd lay down his life for his brothers and sisters. And Haylen. Well. Haylen was a model human being.

 

Sturges slaps his thighs and hoists himself up to his feet, offers out a hand for Danse. Danse rises and hands Sturges his tool box. Together they walk over to the exit. Danse stays at the door; has to reinforce it before heading back to the lobby.

 

And when Sturges departs he turns and gives Danse that friendly two-fingered salute.

 

"I don't know your reasons, but really, Mr. Danse, if Avery wants to help, believe me. If you've got him now, you've got him forever. Just you remember that."

 

 

* * *

 

 

"You like him, don't you? Sturges, I mean."

 

"Oh, come on," Haylen laughs, and flicks her empty granola bar wrapper at Avery's freckled nose. He flinches, and laughs back with a broken-toothed smile; runs his hand down his bruised arm. His eyes are glassy; she knows he shot some med-x in the bathroom. But she concedes that there's nothing she can really do to stop him right now. Not until he's an Initiate.

 

The station is quiet, as it was when Avery first arrived, and the air feels wonderful and calming on their faces, cool breeze drafting in through the cracks in the windows, through the wooden boards nailed there. Haylen and Avery lie on the floor in the precinct reception, jackets cushioning their heads as they splay their arms out, gaze up at the high ceiling. The ceiling fan sways gently when the wind hits it hard enough.

 

"I could put in a good word." Avery smacks his chewing gum. "He's not seeing anyone."

 

"I don't have time for fooling around." Haylen turns her head, towards her scribe hat laying on the floor. She plays with the brim of it.

 

"You take your job very seriously, Scribe Haylen."

 

She sighs. "I have to. Danse-- er, Paladin Danse. And Knight Rhys depend on me. We depend on each other." Her eyes are a bit vacant as she stares through the window, past the trees, still bearing their leaves, rustling loudly.

 

"Before you got here?" She lowers her voice to a whisper. "We were alone. And we were losing hope. The Paladin won't admit it, and hates when I say it. But it's true."

 

Avery furrows his brow. "Did the Brotherhood really send you guys out here all alone?"

 

"It's more complicated than that. They sent out..."

 

She pauses, like she's deciding whether she wants to speak or not.

 

"... There were more. But now we're three. We... We did this before, in other places, with no hitch. But this time..."

 

Avery searches Haylen's face for a moment, trying to understand.

 

There were more? But where...?

 

Haylen has a miserable sort of look about her. And Avery's mind is finally switching gears, yes, and oh no.

 

Oh no. No no no.

 

"I'm sorry." He reaches his hand out for hers. She takes it, and makes that sort of smile one makes when they're trying to shake off a low.

 

"It's alright." It's not, but Avery knows when to stop prying.

 

 

* * *

 

 

In the morning, Danse moves to wake up Avery by nudging him, but Avery already woke from the sound of his heavy footsteps on the distressed floorboards.

 

He opens his eyes. "Paladin."

 

"Sir." Once Danse has his attention, the Paladin turns and starts getting his gear from behind the reception desk. "About the details I briefed you about last night. If you're still interested, I'm leaving at quarter past."

 

"I'm interested."

 

"Good." Danse shoves a fusion core into his power armor. Avery smiles inwardly-- He stops and thinks for a moment.

 

Danse encouraged Avery to accompany him.

 

He taps his fingers on his thighs, and looks over at Scribe Haylen, awake and with her legs crossed with paperwork in her lap, and she smiles too. She caught it. 

 

 

 


	8. A Whisper and a Clamor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally wrote a thing. Always feel free to send me suggestions, head canons, questions, or comments either here or on my tumblr - http://barfyscorpion.tumblr.com , and thanks for reading!

 

 

The most peculiar thing about the CIT ruins, Avery thought, is that it didn’t look like _ruins_ at all. Avery associated that word with rubble, with rebar poking out of concrete. And the buildings were mostly intact: a blown-out window here and there, maybe some superficial damage. 

 

But the only thing that really made it feel uncomfortable was the human remains —  not just the skeletal remains (or fresher blood still), but the stray books, the plates and cutlery and newspapers left on the diner tables. Without those telltale marks of a struggle, one could walk the campus and feel as if it were simply too early for people to be around, the morning commute not yet in motion. But Avery shivered a little, walking the almost _pristine_ roads and pathways, because it felt like humanity had simply disappeared.

 

And Avery felt alone.

 

“It’s such a waste. All of this.” Avery had tuned out the sound of Danse’s power armor, but his voice cut through and made his skin raise goosebumps. “All those people, cowering inside shanty towns when there’s perfectly good buildings outside.”

 

The Commonwealth was a clean wasteland, if there ever was one. The roads of the Mojave were reduced to rubble, not from the bombs but from the blistering heat and ever-ticking time. Cities Avery passed along the way, more centrally bombed than Boston, lay in absolute devastation. But Boston, Boston remained. Much of the downtown core was broken apart, buildings crumbling against each other like dominos, but the majority was almost quaint. And Avery supposed that is why people stayed so tied to this place, despite the dangers that lurk around the corners and in the dark.

 

Avery looks down at his sneakers. “People here are very afraid, Paladin.”

 

Danse sighs. “From what I’ve seen of the synths, I do not blame them.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Danse didn’t plan on leaving Rhys and Haylen alone. Not until they were reunited with the rest of the Brotherhood. But there was this _itch_. Brandis was a good man. Astlin was a good woman. Lost too many good soldiers; wanted to pay his respects and recover what he could to honor their memory.

 

“Paladin, what is it I am looking for?” Avery plays with the dial of his Pip-Boy, notches clicking under broken and bloodied fingernails.

 

Stay focused. Stop worrying so much.

 

But Haylen and Rhys are alone.

 

“Paladin? Paladin Danse?”

 

Don’t lose another patrol.

 

Danse clenches his fists. Focus. “Keep switching channels until you hit something that sounds like a high-pitched tone playing at a steady pace.” They had to have left a distress signal. Right?

 

… Beep.

 

Beep.

 

“Um, is this it?”

 

Beep.

 

“No. It isn’t.” Danse says.

 

Beep.

 

Beep.

 

“This is something else entirely,” Danse says, raising his eyebrow.

 

Beep.

 

And suddenly, a flash of blinding white light crashes down onto the roof of a nearby bus. The flash kicks up wind, sends pebbles and stray papers flying outwards, and Danse quickly pivots on his heel and throws himself at Avery, Avery gasping as the wind is knocked out of him and he is thrown to the pavement, wincing as he looks up questioningly at Danse, armored elbows at either side of his face, shielding him from… from…

 

And there’s a mechanical sort of noise, coming from all around, and as Avery tries to wriggle free and gaze at whatever is happening, there’s a familiar sort of _whoom_ as lasers hit the pavement mere inches from his nose. “Syn — “ Danse yells but is cut off, recoils back and makes a pained yell through winced teeth, burying his head into Avery’s rib cage and clenching his fists at his shoulders.

 

“Danse? Danse?!” Avery struggles free, and he bolts for the nearest cover, which he finds in the form of a newsstand in the center of college square. Clutching at his skull where the back of it hit the pavement, he looks back, and there’s Danse desperately trying to knock a fallen fusion cell back into his rifle as these _things_ , these robots, five or six of them surround him, just mechanical skeletons without an inch of flesh.

 

These are synths?

 

**“ＴＡＲＧＥＴ ＩＳ ＯＮ ＴＨＥ ＧＲＯＵＮＤ． ＡＴＴＥＭＰＴＩＮＧ ＴＯ ＮＥＵＴＲＡＬＩＺＥ．”**

 

There’s shots again, and another pained yelp from the Paladin on the ground, still curling inward on himself and attempting to fix his rifle. And Avery is blank, he can’t think, he doesn’t have _time_ to think, and he throws his bag to the ground, huffs a canister of jet and launches himself at the nearest synth.

 

Avery’s light, but the synths are lighter, and there’s a loud crash as metal meets pavement, Avery clawing and kicking and stomping and panting, and time just seems to _slow_ as he moves from one synth to the second, ripping its eyes from their fiberglass sockets.

 

The inevitable happens, and Avery is struck with a laser, right through the flesh of his upper arm. He screams, and as he is grabbed from behind he thrusts his elbows backward, shoves his skull back into the synth’s jaw. He hears a familiar _whirr_ as red beams of light dance with the cyan ones, and through his pain he sighs in relief knowing the Paladin is back on his feet.

 

“ **Ｉ ＡＭ ＴＨＥ ＶＩＣＴＩＭ ＯＦ ＶＩＯＬＥＮＣＥ．** ”

 

Avery throws his leg back and trips a synth to the ground, stomping on its face with two feet. He plants his heels back onto the pavement when he is sure the synth has stopped twitching and looks over his shoulder, and Danse is finishing dispatching a second synth as another one charges behind him.

 

Avery wrenches a rifle from a synth’s dead hand and plants his knees on the ground firmly as he takes (a rather shaky) aim and pulls down hard on the trigger, shutting his eyes tightly as it fires a beam of light so blinding that it permeates his eyelids and leaves his vision blurry, and the back of his head hurts, and his arm is numb, and…

 

He makes a weak, strangled sort of sigh as he drops cold to the floor.


	9. Stream Flows

 

 

This is nothing like the Jet. The complete opposite, in fact, Avery thinks. The way that Jet makes every hair on his body stand rigid, the way every sound and touch and scent is just elevated almost beyond his comprehension. Everything saturated, blinding, even. 

 

But not now, not now. Everything is so gray.

 

Avery registers that someone is talking to him. He doesn’t feel like he can move, so he instead just blinks his eyes a little, vision blurry under long and dark eyelashes. It’s dark, and looks about the same as it did with his eyes closed. He manages a sigh.

 

“Ah, good. Don’t do anything sudden. Nice and slow.”

 

Avery nods, buries his face into — something. Something warm.

 

“On a scale of one to ten, how is your pain?”

 

Avery quirks up an eyebrow, like he’s confused by the question. He opens his mouth, despite feeling groggy. “What? I don’t hurt. Nothing hurts. Nothing feels… Anything. Not much of anything.”

 

There’s shifting underneath his head, and then the familiar sound of the Pip-Boy light turning on, bright amber light assaulting Avery’s senses. He moans gently in protest.

 

Avery’s chin is raised by two strong fingers, and he squints his eyes open to see the Paladin looking down at him with a puzzling look on his face. 

 

“Paladin?” Avery mumbles.

 

Danse nods a little as he runs a thumb over Avery’s temple. “Yes?”

 

Avery smiles, just a gentle one. “Um… You’re here. Wait! You’re here. Are you all right? Are the synths gone? Did you — “

 

“Slow down. We’re fine.” Danse purses his lips a little, thinking, and then prods at Avery’s head again with his free hand. “You… Sure you’re not hurting? It’s not cowardly to say so, soldier. How much does it hurt when I do this?”

 

Avery furrows his brow and looks up at Danse questioningly. “I don’t hurt. Why are you doing this?”

 

Danse lowers Avery’s head back onto his lap slowly, and sighs. “In the morning, we’re taking you to Haylen. I’ll have her take a look at you. I patched you up as best I could, but you’re worrying me.” The Paladin is not making eye contact with Avery, and Avery knows he is nervous. “I don’t want to alarm you, but your head is in bad shape.”

 

His power armor stands empty next to them, the officer cross-legged on the ruined tile. Avery can’t see well enough around them to make out exactly where they were, so he returns his eyes to Danse’s, and Danse doesn’t smile back, but his eyes do, at least.

 

“I’m fine,” Avery smiles, and reaches out a small hand to rest reassuringly on Danse’s shoulder. Danse shrinks inwardly at the physical contact, though, and Avery withdraws his hand as if he had been burned. Danse closes his eyes and shakes his head, returns to his rigid posture.

 

Avery wonders what he did wrong.

 

“After you passed out, you sustained multiple injuries to the head. Both from your fall and from two synths. I dispatched them when I could, but not before they could worsen the damage.” Danse frowns. “I’m… You saved me. I’m sorry that I couldn’t save you in turn, soldier.”

 

“I’m still here. It’s um, it’s fine.” Avery smiles, staring at the ceiling. “I’m glad you are okay. That’s all. I’m not hurting, Paladin Danse.”

 

“All right.”

 

Avery wants to say something more, do something more, but can’t think. Hard to think. Harder than usual. Wants to at least hold onto the Paladin’s wrist or hand, wants to focus on the feeling, but decides against it. Paladin Danse doesn’t like to be touched. And so Avery continues to struggle to gain lucidity, sensation, on his own. Physically, he feels nothing at all.

 

Danse flicks the light off once again, and Avery rests. Allows the gray to consume him.


End file.
